


(it is the exact opposite of alone.)

by softly (alexenglish)



Series: the worst four letter word (fate.) [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fate & Destiny, M/M, Parallel Universes, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 19:43:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15080357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/softly
Summary: We talk in the dark as we fall asleep, and we are objects in the night sky outside of time.





	(it is the exact opposite of alone.)

**Author's Note:**

> [a softer world project](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/asofterworld)
> 
> I genuinely wasn't going to post this one because it's My Brand(TM) to a tee and I figure y'all must be sick of it by now, but I really liked the way it connected with part one so it's happening anyway. reminder that in this, Harry and Niall don't know what Zayn and Louis do, so all conversation for them is purely "coincidence."

 

They’re in Harry’s hotel room when Harry turns to Niall and says, “we should get stoned.”

It’s early afternoon, but the blinds are closed tight, making the room a touch too dark to be comfortable for Niall’s eyes. Even in the low lighting, Harry glows in contrasts; a chiaroscuro of pale skin and deep blue shadows; the sharp edge of his jaw and the soft corners of his smile.

They’re lying on the bed with their shoulders pressed together, Harry’s curls taking up the space between them, fanning out around his head like a halo. Niall wonders how someone’s eyes can still be so green with barely any light to see by.

“Aren’t you on a sobriety kick?” Niall asks, squinting at Harry. Last time he checked, Harry swore off everything, made a right fuss when the boys went out without him. Like it wasn’t fair -- like it wasn’t his own fault he decided not to drink.

“I could _not_ be on a sobriety kick,” Harry says, with a sigh like _duh_.

“You could,” Niall agrees, easily. He scoots his hips over so there’s less of a divide between them and props himself up so he can see Harry better. It’s not easy, the mattress is squishy, his elbow sinks into the pillowtop. “Where’re we gunna get some?”

“Mate,” Harry says, with a laugh tugging the corners of his mouth. “We’re in Seattle.”

 

 

They end up with a few spliffs of some really good shit and settle into Harry’s hotel bed to smoke them. Niall sinks back into the fat pillows as he lights up, watching the curve of Harry’s back while he browses the iTunes library on his laptop for an album to play.

Harry’s shirtless, as always, bumps of his spine visible under his skin -- spinous processes, Niall’s mind supplies, the bits of the vertebra that stick out. Niall wants to touch them, dig his thumbs into the divots between them, spread his hands over the wings of Harry’s back and -- he doesn’t know what comes after that.

“Play the playlist,” Niall says, distracting himself. He pokes Harry’s thigh with his socked foot. Today, there are pastel pink pineapples on his socks. Louis bought them for him when they were in San Diego. “The one with --”

“All the fuckin’ classic rock?” Harry asks, but it’s rhetorical. He’s already queuing up the songs. David Gilmour’s voice filters through the speakers and Niall grins at Harry, lopsided and pleased.

“Ace,” he says, ashing his joint in the empty Dr. Pepper can from the mini bar. Not that it was empty when he got it from the mini bar, he just drank it.

“You’re predictable,” Harry says, with a smirk. Like he’s one to talk.

“That’s me,” Niall agrees, rolling his eyes. “The safe one.”

“The boy next door,” Harry says, putting the laptop on the nightstand next to the bed. There’s a cluster of water bottles for when Harry starts whining about dry mouth, a bag of trail mix for the inevitable munchies, and Harry’s most recent leather-bound writing journal.

“The one you bring home to the ‘rents,” Niall says, giggling at Harry as he knees walks towards him, making a grabby hand for Niall’s joint since he’s smoked his own.

Niall reckons one, or both, of them are going to regret smoking so much. Neither of them have a tolerance, but they keep going on like they’re Zayn and Louis circa 2013, able to gas-mask it.

Niall’s never tried. A gas mask, that is.

“Claustrophobic,” Niall says, finishing his thought out loud.

The look Harry gives him is far too understanding considering he doesn’t know why Niall said that, but then he says, “it is, isn't it," gaze sweeping over Niall. Then Niall gets it, doesn't know how, but he gets it. 

And then, it’s all Niall can think about. Claustrophobic, warm, too-tight skin under too-loose clothing. He strips off his shirt same as Harry, pretends that he’s not self conscious about his pale complexion or the way his stomach folds.

As soon as Niall is shirtless, Harry pounces on him, pushing him back against the pillows for a cuddle. That was probably his plan all along, Niall reckons.

 

 

They’ve managed to arrange themselves in a tangled mess of limbs, ankles hooked around each other, pressed together at the hips. There’s enough space between them for Niall to drag his fingertips over Harry’s chest, touching without urgency.

“D’you ever think about parallel universes?” Harry asks, slowly. He rolls onto his back and reaches towards the ceiling, fingers fanning out. Niall makes a disgruntled noise and rolls to accommodate Harry’s movement, keeping them wrapped up in each other. He props himself up on his elbow and frowns at Harry.

“No,” he says, with a giggle, watching Harry’s hand drop onto the bed next to him. “Why would I?”

“There’s, like, this multiverse theory,” Harry says, frowning very seriously like Niall’s offended him.

“About parallel universes?” Niall asks, slotting his fingers into the grooves between Harry’s ribs, scratching his nails over the bumps and ridges of his bones.

“An infinite number of parallel universes,” Harry agrees, with a sigh. Niall doesn’t know if it’s because he’s touching Harry, or because Harry’s thinking about alternate dimensions. “It can’t be falsified, though. So it’s more philosophical than scientific.”

“Falsified?” Niall asks, dragging his fingers down, watching in fascination as Harry arches the tiniest bit, seeking Niall’s touch. It’s like he does it without realizing, pushes his hips up so Niall’s fingers slide down the soft curve of his belly, closer to the hem of his jeans.

“Proven wrong,” Harry says, as Niall flushes hotly and skates his fingers back up to the safety of Harry’s sternum -- away from the tempting jut of his hipbones and the fine dusting of his happy trail. “Like the scientific method is all about proving things wrong. If they can’t be proven wrong, they must be right. But, like, there’s no way to really quantify a multiverse theory --”

“Harry, this is goin’ over me head,” Niall says, dipping his head down so he can dig the point of his chin into the soft flesh of Harry’s shoulder.

“Mine too, ’m afraid,” Harry says, frown deepening. He’s lost his train of thought, Niall can tell.

“Universes?” Niall prompts, picking his head back up. It’s easier to see Harry if he’s not down so low, not straining his eyes to see the curve of Harry’s jaw. Without realizing, he’s scooted in again, stomach pressed against Harry’s side. He’s glad Harry doesn’t mind when he slings his leg over Harry’s hip. He traces Harry’s butterfly and waits.

“An infinite number of universes means everything has happened,” Harry says, voice dropping low. “Means there’s a universe where -- where one of us went through X Factor as a solo artist. Where all of us went through, even.”

“Where one of us won?” Niall asks, even though he knows the answer. He gets it. “Where One Direction won X Factor?”

“Sure, loads,” Harry says. His voice drops, sobering up a bit. “Where we happened, but didn’t blow up. Where we happened and blew up, but where -- where Zayn stayed. Where Zayn stayed and was happy.”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Niall admits, squeezing his eyes shut. He feels the claustrophobia of an unhappy high creeping in with Harry’s words.

“Universes where we didn’t happen,” Harry says quickly, catching Niall’s hand. He’s looking at Niall so intently, Niall can’t bear to blink. “But we all met anyway. Like -- like, fated.”

“We’re fated,” Niall says. Meaning the five of them, but also the two of them. Just the two of them. Harry’s face softens, gets _shy_ almost. He drops Niall’s hand. Niall traces the bridge of his nose, the sharp edge of his cheekbones, and watches Harry’s eyelashes flutter.

“Yeah, fated,” Harry agrees, slowly. “Like met at a concert or a park, or something. Met all over. In every circumstance, in every -- every combination, or permutation, whatever, imaginable. Over and over.”

“In every universe?” Niall asks, so quietly that he doesn’t know if Harry hears him. He can’t imagine universes where he never met the boys, never knew them. He doesn’t want to think about that.

Like. He’s never been in a relationship long enough to fall properly in love, not in a traditional way. Not where he meets someone and dates them and ends up falling for them. But he knows he’s been in love because --

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s love, it has to be. The only reason why the five of them worked so well from the beginning is because they were all a little bit in love with each other at first sight. Without realizing it, maybe, but it was undeniable -- the allowances they made for each other, the spats, the way they sunk into each other and held each other and refused to let go until… until --

Harry makes a noise, low in his throat. Niall realizes he’s been dragging the pad of his thumb across Harry’s bottom lip. The smile Niall gives Harry feels a little sideways, but Harry grins in response, tongue licking out against Niall’s finger like a tease.

“Every universe,” Harry agrees. “All of us. Somehow.”

The world tilts as Harry sits up, making Niall roll away. Niall makes a disgruntled noise, but doesn’t protest as Harry manhandles him into a sitting position.

The bed seemed so vast and endless while they were lying down, but sitting up, Niall can see where the edges drop off. He doesn’t like it; it was better when they were adrift in a sea of blankets.

Seeing the floor is a reminder of the finite, makes Niall think of endings -- Niall doesn’t want to think about that.

So, he doesn’t. He forces his attention back on Harry who's grabbing his hand and lining their fingers up so their palms are kissing. Harry’s hands are larger than his. Niall likes that about Harry. That he’s taller, stretched out like taffy. That Niall fits so well in the space under his arm, can press his face into Harry’s neck when they hug, can lie on him fully and still have space to maneuver.

“Can you see them?” Harry asks.

Niall can’t.

“What?” he asks. All he can see is the back of his hand, the shadow of Harry’s fingers behind his.

“The strings,” Harry says. “Like. Strings of fate. All of us.”

Niall can’t. But he can see the impressions of them, like if they were there. Liam on his first finger, Louis on his middle. Harry, inexplicably tied to his ring finger. Zayn tied to his pinky. Each in red, bright and demanding, trailing away from him, out the door and across the world.

His and Harry’s strings lying in a pile between them.

“No, I don’t,” Niall says, with a grin. Harry sighs at him and drops their hands. Niall drags his nails over Harry’s thighs, feels the rasp of his hair under his fingers. The noise Harry makes sound like a purr.

“That’s okay, they’re there,” Harry says, flopping backwards so that he’s lying down again. Niall follows him down, lies next to him. They’re adrift again, a sea of blankets around them.

“I don’t doubt it,” Niall admits. He tiptoes his fingers over Harry’s tattoos, tracing the lines of each one as best as he can as Harry watches him.

The room is dark. Shadows pool in the hills and valleys of Harry’s collar. Niall wants to taste them, wants to drag his lips across Harry’s warm skin and kiss his heartbeat.

Instead, he touches Harry’s jaw, the curve of his ear, sinks his hand into Harry’s curls. Harry makes an approving noise, so Niall tugs. Harry groans, eyes fluttering open.

“What are you doing, Niall James Horan?” Harry asks, voice like syrup, curling up at the base of Niall’s spine, warm and heavy. Heat sinks into Niall’s bones.

“Not sure,” Niall admits, but Harry is looking up at him with soft eyes, and pink cheeks, trusting and open -- and Niall thinks this is exactly where he’s supposed to be as he leans down to kiss Harry’s sweet mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/175331867207/it-is-the-exact-opposite-of-alone)


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